


You Will Hear from Me Again

by 0Rocky41_7



Category: Arthurian Mythology, Arthurian Mythology & Related Fandoms, The Mists of Avalon - Marion Zimmer Bradley
Genre: F/F, Morgwen - Freeform, Period-Typical Sexism, ie gwen being gwen, period-typical anti-pagan sentiment
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-23
Updated: 2018-06-23
Packaged: 2019-05-27 14:13:22
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,245
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15026417
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/0Rocky41_7/pseuds/0Rocky41_7
Summary: Morgaine has been causing some trouble for Queen Gwenhwyfar, but it's taken Gwen a while to realize the exact nature of it.





	You Will Hear from Me Again

**Author's Note:**

> After the move to Camelot, prior to the events of Beltane with Arthur, Lancelet and Gwenhwyfar

Morgaine, as usual, refrained from remark from among the ladies. She sat carding her wool with her narrow, dark eyes distant. It seemed to Gwenhwyfar that Morgaine often inhabited a plane of her own making, separate and apart from everyone else. Though she regularly tried to draw Morgaine into the conversations, and would always succeed for a while, the woman inevitably drifted back into some distant place. Maybe she was off in the fairy realm, dancing jigs and singing songs.

                “Morgaine, you seem weary with the wool,” Gwenhwyfar remarked, her stitching sitting still in her lap. “Perhaps you would like to spin for a change?”

                “No, this is fine,” Morgaine said, shaking her head. She would gladly card wool all day to avoid having to spin—such a loathsome task. And although she had great talent with sewing, she had no mind to that either. Igraine had started her too young, she thought, and now she’d grown sick of it long before her hair began to gray.

                “Your work is so fine, I can’t think why you avoid it so,” Elaine said. “Would that I could spin as well as you, Morgaine!” A smile passed the shorter woman’s lips, but Gwenhwyfar did not see it reach her eyes.

                “You could play for us,” Meleas suggested. “The air’s grown warm in here, and it makes my head cloudy. Music would cheer us all!”

                Gwenhwyfar frowned, but Morgaine was well aware of what Gwenhwyfar thought about women who played instruments and danced. Unbound by the restrictions of decent folk, Morgaine remained consecrated to the heathens of Avalon, in spite of all Gwenhwyfar’s efforts. The ladies were always cheered with music, and Gwenhwyfar would not call Kevin the harper—she had not done so since their last days at Caerleon, when she had lashed out so terribly. She trusted her apologies had been conveyed by Lancelet, but she could not bear to look upon Kevin’s twisted face, nor speak to him unless obliged, since that day. If they would not have Kevin, Morgaine was the only one among them who could play decently.

                “I could give it a try,” Elaine offered.

                “Oh please, no,” Meleas objected. “Let Morgaine do it. She sings well, for a woman.” She glanced at Gwenhwyfar. The queen nodded her head, the frown still quirking her mouth down. Even so, Gwenhwyfar’s loveliness seemed to shine about the room, as though she glowed. Arthur’s perfect bride, Morgaine thought with some biting. Ah, but it wasn’t just to be bitter to Gwenhwyfar—it wasn’t as if she had had any say in the matter, though Morgaine felt certain it was Gwenhwyfar who had coerced Arthur to take down the banner of Pendragon over his men. The young woman had grown more Christian with every passing year, and it disdained Morgaine to see how she dismissed the rites of Avalon.

                “If it pleases the queen.” Morgaine lifted her gaze to Gwenhwyfar’s, and she felt those dark eyes pin her down. Morgaine’s piercing gaze always seemed to look straight to the heart of her, and Gwenhwyfar, at times, felt terribly certain that she had no secrets from Morgaine. And she was so close to Lancelet—perhaps she had no need of fairy magics, perhaps Lancelet had told her himself!

                Nervously, Gwenhwyfar flicked a hand in affirmation, her mind overcome with these worries. As ill as it boded having Morgaine at court, Gwenhwyfar could never countenance to send her away. Morgaine had always been a faithful friend, even if her presence stirred Gwenhwyfar’s jealousy, and offended her Christian sensibilities. Moreover, Morgaine was Arthur’s treasured sister, last of his direct kin, and Gwenhwyfar did not fancy to see who would win if she made him choose between them. She breathed deeply, and tried to focus on her stitching, but now her mind was in a flurry, and once more curiosity over where Morgaine had been in the years she had been away ate at the edges of Gwenhwyfar’s mind. Morgaine had said nothing, breathed not a word, and Gwenhwyfar knew no one would break the former priestess’ iron will. If Morgaine wished not to speak, she would not speak, not under pain of death or purgatory (not that she believed in such a thing).

                Morgaine returned to the room with her harp, and settled on her seat. Her deft fingers plucked the strings, and there Gwenhwyfar’s eyes settled as she continued her steady breathing to calm herself. Her father would have scolded her, for getting so worked up over nothing, but somehow this thought did not bring Gwenhwyfar strength of mind, but only multiplied her anxiety by half. She banished the late petty king from her mind and watched Morgaine tune the strings of the harp before she began to strum out a tune.

                Her voice began low and soft, too quiet and drawn out for Gwenhwyfar to make out the words. Her head bowed over the harp, but the pins in her hair held steady—she never allowed a loose bun or sloppy braid to pass unremedied. When they first met, Gwenhwyfar had remarked to Lancelet that he was nothing like his cousin Morgaine. She recalled she’d made some remark about the fairy people, and shifted uneasily—she seemed to remember it had been rather insulting. Morgaine would have long-forgotten by now though—they had been so young then. Now though, she could see the similarities in their coloring, though Morgaine had none of Lancelet’s beauty. There was an imposing severity to Morgaine’s features that denied the chance for beauty, with her heavy brow and unfair complexion, the sturdiness of her jaw and the sharpness of her cheekbones. Gwenhwyfar wondered, on a sudden impulse, if Morgaine had ever wished to be beautiful. She seemed so far above such things, but she was a woman too, and had once been a girl. Oh, but Morgaine would never confide such things to Gwenhwyfar—she knew well that Morgaine thought her childish and empty-headed.

                It was unseemly for a woman to make music, but Morgaine’s voice was deserving of Arthur’s praise. She had a deep voice for a woman, smooth and rich, and Gwenhwyfar forgot the stitching in her hands. They all seemed to, contrary to Meleas’ thought they would be more productive with music. The only busy hands in the room were Morgaine’s—all the other ladies had fallen still.

                Morgaine had been trained to play in Avalon, Gwenhwyfar knew. Why had she left? Gwenhwyfar knew it was not because she had seen the light and chosen to return to her mother’s Christianity—Morgaine, she feared, would ever been an untamed pagan. So why then, had she abandoned Avalon’s shores? Out of love for Arthur, to be at his court? Had she perhaps quarreled with the Lady of the Lake? Or did she linger with some other, more nefarious purpose? And what else had they taught her there—what did a pagan priestess’ training entail? Gwenhwyfar had wondered before. She knew the priestesses were expected to attend the Beltane celebrations, and partake in the Great Marriage, when necessary. Was she trained for that? Had someone once shown her what to do, and what had she thought of it? The image of Morgaine around a Beltane fire, the yellow-orange of the firelight against her naked body beating at the moonlight draped over her, and the hands of some unknown man, grasping at her—

Gwenhwyfar’s cheeks burned like a firebrand, and she leaped to her feet.

“That’s enough,” she said. “Look, you’ve all forgotten your work so quickly!” She set her stitching aside and strode to the door to open it. “Here, Meleas, if the air troubles you we will open the door. And let’s have no more of that, thank you, Morgaine.”

“As my lady wishes,” Morgaine replied, setting the harp aside. She resumed her carding silently, but Gwenhwyfar felt chastised nevertheless, and she wanted to demand answers of her sister-in-law, but she knew she would only seem foolish. So she picked her stitching up and resumed, telling herself it was idle hands that led to such wicked thoughts.

***

“Arthur would compete in the tournament, I think, but I told him it was not fair,” Gwenhwyfar said as she pinned up her hair. “What man would knock his king off his horse?”

“I have seen Lancelet do it,” Morgaine replied mildly, watching Gwenhwyfar’s dainty fingers painstakingly work over her braids. “Gawaine as well, though he did give his apologies afterwards.” The High Queen’s soft face pinched as she struggled with an unruly lock of hair, and Morgaine stepped forward. “Let me help, my lady.”

Gwenhwyfar lowered her hands, allowing Morgaine to take over. She had the queen hand over her hairbrush, and carefully combed through the long golden locks. What beautiful babies she would make with Arthur, Morgaine thought. If only that seemed to be in the cards for her, though Morgaine doubted not that Gwenhwyfar would raise any child to be as fearful of the world as she was. That would never do for one to be the High King—he would have to be fostered elsewhere.

The queen’s soft locks fell silky and wavy through Morgaine’s hands, like spun gold _. Little and ugly, like the fairy people_. How many years had gone by since Gwenhwyfar’s offhanded remark, whispered to Lancelet? And would those words ring in Morgaine’s head forever? The brush came to a halt, and she simply ran her fingers through Gwenhwyfar’s hair. They had been little more than children then, was there really anything to be got from such an insult? _You only let it bother you because you see the truth of it_ , Morgaine’s mind told her. Hearing it come from Gwenhwyfar hurt all the more, for she was the very picture of a queen, the greatest beauty in all Britain, and next to her shining visage, Morgaine was little more than a dour mule, fit for breeding maybe, but never to be admired. But that was no fault of Gwenhwyfar’s, and Morgaine did not truly hold the old comment against her—she only wished she could dismiss it as a jealous falsehood.

She went on brushing Gwenhwyfar’s hair long past when the tangles were gone, and Gwenhwyfar did not protest. When she was done, she set the brush down, and began braiding Gwenhwyfar’s hair with a surprisingly gentle touch. Morgaine seemed at times so callous that Gwenhwyfar wondered if a wife’s gentleness was in her at all, but not once did she yank Gwenhwyfar’s hair or pull a braid too tight. Even Gwenhwyfar’s own step-mother had not done the job so neatly.

“Who do you think will win?” Gwenhwyfar asked faintly.

“Lancelet, of course,” Morgaine replied. “There is no competition while he is on the field, the others all know it.”

“He is a fine knight. Worthy of being the High King’s Companion.”

“Worthy of being queen’s champion?” Morgaine’s voice was so quiet that Gwenhwyfar could not tell if she meant for her to hear it at all, or if it had been a statement, or a question.

“There is no one worthier in all Britain,” she declared loyally. Morgaine’s hands dropped from her hair.

“There you are, my queen. I hope it pleases you well.” She stepped back from Gwenhwyfar’s stool.

“Thank you, sister-in-law,” Gwenhwyfar said, turning around to face Morgaine. “You are so talented with your hands, I feel there’s nothing you could not master.” Morgaine smiled again, in that way that did not reach her eyes, and Gwenhwyfar felt the woman was further away from her than Gwenhwyfar would ever know.

For some reason, now, it threw her into a fit of frustration. How could Morgaine stand there and weave her fingers through Gwenhwyfar’s hair, and speak softly to her, and be a thousand miles away? Did Morgaine too, consider her unworthy of being queen, barren as she was? Tears pricked her eyes. Why was it that this awful woman could make her feel so inadequate? _Even Lancelet desires her!_ screamed a voice in Gwenhwyfar’s head. Had he been with her already? They were both unwed, and Morgaine bound by no Christian vows of chastity or restraint. Gwenhwyfar vowed then that she would keep Morgaine fast by her side during Beltane—she would not see Morgaine out at the fires with the other heathens, being handled and impregnated by persons unknown. By hook or by crook, Morgaine would stay in Camelot this year! “You may go, I will finish on my own,” she said, surprised by the coldness in her voice.

Judging by Morgaine’s silent pause, she too, was taken aback, but she bowed her head and gracefully took her leave, letting Gwenhwyfar shed her few childish tears in peace. Was there no one in all Britain who cared for her happiness, for her person? She was used to Arthur favoring war and ruling over her, but it stung so much harsher from Morgaine. In a fit, she hurled her hairbrush across the room, where it struck the wall with a crack, and Gwenhwyfar gasped. Oh, if she had broken it—! What a foolish, wrathful thing to do! She jumped up and hurried to the wall, where she was relieved to find only a small fracture in the decorative backing of the brush.

                _Stupid child!_ she scolded herself fiercely. _Get that witch-woman from your head, and behave as a queen ought!_

***

                Some months past Gwenhwyfar’s loss of temper in her chambers, she cornered Morgaine in the kitchens, where she had come to oversee the brewing of beer for a coming feast. The queen burst through the door in a flurry of skirts and swishing of her veil. She ordered the cook-staff out, and turned her feebly heated gaze on Morgaine.

                “Tell me true Morgaine!” she cried, throwing an accusing finger at Morgaine. “And tell me now! What spell have you cast on me? I will have it from you! You, my dear sister-in-law, to wield your pagan magics against me, when I have been so good to you! I know you have done, I know, you have put these sinful thoughts in my head, you have turned my mind to you and I cannot get you out! Have you not seen me suffer enough for my failure to bring about a child? Has Lancelet spoken to you of my wickedness? To be so cruel to me, sister-in-law, I never thought—!”

                “My queen, lower your voice,” Morgaine urged with wide eyes, interrupting Gwenhwyfar’s hysteria, reaching out to her as she approached.

                “Don’t touch me!” Gwenhwyfar shrieked. “And don’t tell me to calm down! I know you have meddled, Morgaine! I have heard of your wickedness, but I never thought you would bring such things into this house! Arthur is a good Christian, as are we all, and I will not have you casting the horrors of Avalon upon us!”

                “I’ve cast no magics!” Morgaine snapped, her sour expression wrinkled in disgust. “I’ve been no more to Avalon since Arthur was crowned, and I have no need of any magic to deal with those at Camelot. If your thoughts are not to your liking, Gwenhwyfar, that is your doing!”

                “How dare you!” Gwenhwyfar flung herself at Morgaine, desperation driving her wild. It was Morgaine, it had to be, there was no other sense for what had become of her! Was it not enough that she desired her husband’s right-hand man? No, it could not be that of her own well, she had also set her eyes upon his cousin! Morgaine was a woman, and moreover, a pagan. If these thoughts were of Gwenhwyfar’s own making, she was damned. No, she must believe it was some devilish cruelty of Morgaine’s—she must have had it from Lancelet, whilst in his bed, and so she had decided to punish Gwenhwyfar, for being untrue to her brother!

                Gwenhwyfar’s weak blows were of little more consequence to Morgaine than the flailing fists of a newborn babe, but her clawing nails would be unpleasant. Their sleeves whirled about them as Morgaine fought to get ahold of the mad queen’s wrists.

                “Gwenhwyfar!”

                “You have ruined me!” Gwenhwyfar screeched. “Even as Lancelet fades from my mind, so I see your face! Morgaine, you wicked, cursed woman!” Morgaine grunted as the queen’s weight crashed into her, her fingers grabbing for Morgaine’s jewels and hair, and, it seemed, whatever else she could get ahold of. Morgaine nearly had the best of her, but Gwenhwyfar went on thrashing, with no mind to how she was brawling like a common peasant, and when their lips met, it was much the same. Gwenhwyfar’s hands ceased their violent scratching, and Morgaine’s fingers closed around her delicate wrists like vices. She pressed against Gwenhwyfar’s lips, moving hungrily against hers. She maneuvered them to pin Gwenhwyfar’s wrists to the countertop, and hopefully have the chance to calm her down, but Gwenhwyfar’s knees spread and she arched up, and Morgaine realized with a shock that Gwenhwyfar, perhaps, imagined Morgaine intended to ravish her, here in the kitchen.

                When she pulled back from the kiss, Gwenhwyfar was sobbing, her sweet mouth twisted up in a grimace, her body open and willing even in her mind’s conflict. She tried to speak, but could not, and Morgaine’s grasp on the queen loosened.

                “My lady…” she began in a soft, low voice, and Gwenhwyfar jerked free, steadying herself on her feet. She reached out without thinking, to wipe one of Gwenhwyfar’s cheeks, but she grabbed Morgaine’s hand roughly, and leaned down to kiss her again, needy, almost begging.

                “Morgaine,” she whispered. “What cruelty could you wish up on me? Have I not been good to you? Do you not love me well?” Morgaine’s back was stiff, and a shudder went through her as Gwenhwyfar’s soft, full lips pressed against her thin ones. One hand flew uncertainly to Gwenhwyfar’s waist, trying to keep them steady, and it was as if she had reminded Gwenhwyfar that she had hands—the queen grabbed at her waist, her hands sliding then lower, and Morgaine thought of Lancelet’s fumbling, childish caresses, and how he had humiliated her with his refusal to treat her as a woman, how he had shamed the Goddess with his cowardice.

                She surged forward, thrusting Gwenhwyfar back against the counter, and felt the queen’s willowy form tremble against her. There was more bite in Gwenhwyfar’s kiss than she had ever gotten from Lancelet—more fire than she had had from Arthur. It burned in Morgaine’s gut, and one hand grabbed at the queen’s breast, dumbfounded by her own audacity, and distantly she remembered her time in fairy country, and the maidens there, and half-recollected memories of what she had done with them...

                No, they couldn’t do this here—no, the servants were doubtless waiting about to hear what business the queen had with the king’s sister, and it was filthy in here with flour and grease, the smell of brewing beer permeating the air—no, if she would have Gwenhwyfar, she would have her as the Goddess was meant to be treated—

                “You will hear from me again,” she told Gwenhwyfar hoarsely, fiercely, with a tone that one simply did not use with a queen, and an insolent fire in her eyes. Gwenhwyfar swallowed, atremble like a leaf in the breeze, and watched Morgaine stalk from the kitchen, wondering what sort of spells were afoot in Camelot, and what Morgaine intended to say to her next.

**Author's Note:**

> [On tumblr](http://imakemywings.tumblr.com/post/175186076270/you-will-hear-from-me-again)
> 
> [On Pillowfort](https://www.pillowfort.social/posts/620750%22)


End file.
